The deal had been sealed, so to speak. Neither needed to pretend any more that they didn’t fancy the pants off each other, which was tremendously freeing. So much so, in fact, that they were both keen to repeat the experience as often as possible thereafter.
In the meantime, Liz put together a sort of itinerary for their Mexico trip, and Chabela telephoned her cleaner, Verónica, asking her to prepare the apartment for their arrival. She wired Verónica some cash to buy two airbeds, one for Rosie and the other for Rafael, and got her to make them up, along with two others, for Liz and Simon.
As the day of their departure drew near, Chabela started having butterflies in her stomach and realised that it was excitement and nerves. Certainly, she was looking forward to seeing her home city and tasting some real Mexican food again. The main reason for her agitation, however, was Simon. She couldn’t quite imagine how it would feel to be with him in her own country, to hear him speaking with locals and to show him some of the places that she loved most. It seemed almost too good to be true.
Deep down, she hoped that his visit would go so well that it would finally expunge her last lurking memories of Alfonso. With luck, she would return to Tremarnock with a clear head and a completely fresh slate, so to speak, all ready to begin the next chapter.
Just two days before they were due to leave, she was in her bedroom at Polgarry Manor, starting to put things in her suitcase, when she received a call from Simon.
It was Tuesday night at around eight o’clock when he’d normally be busy marking homework. He was never one just to phone for a chat, so she knew that something was up.
‘Hello,’ she said tentatively, and the heaviness in his voice only confirmed her concerns. He explained that Ralph, the head teacher at the secondary school where he worked, had gone down with shingles. That very afternoon, Ralph had been at home with his wife recuperating when he’d developed complications and had had to be admitted to hospital.
The deputy, Marion, was beside herself with worry because no one knew how long Ralph would be off work. The school was due an inspection by Ofsted, and Marion had reason to believe that the assessors might arrive soon after half-term.
‘She was expecting to spend the holiday preparing, but she thought Ralph would be sharing the load,’ Simon went on. ‘It’s most unfortunate. I can’t leave her to do it all alone. She was stressed even before he fell ill; this might tip her over the edge.’
At first, Chabela couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing, then she tried to persuade Simon to bring his work with him.
‘You can have my study all to yourself. It’s nice and quiet in there. You won’t be disturbed.’
But Simon said that he should be around in person for Marion, and besides, he’d need to pop in and out of school to check on various things.
‘Can’t some of the other heads of department help her?’ Chabela asked next, but according to Simon, two were brand new to the school and the others hadn’t been there anything like as long as him.
‘I’m the only one who knows where all the records are kept, apart from Ralph and Marion, that is. I’m afraid I’m the obvious choice. No one’s more sorry than me, Chabela,’ he added. ‘I’m gutted.’
She tried to hide her disappointment as best she could. ‘What a shame! Another time, perhaps,’ she said, fake-brightly.
As soon as she hung up, however, she threw herself on the bed and wept bitterly. Although on one level she understood his reasoning perfectly, on the other, she couldn’t help feeling desperately hurt and rejected. If he really wanted to come, surely he would find a way around the problem? She wanted him to move heaven and earth for her and instead, he’d cancelled what would have been their first ever holiday together for a highly strung woman called Marion.
All of a sudden, the trip, which she’d been so looking forward to, seemed much less like fun and more like hard work. She’d do her best to make sure that the others had a good time, but as far as she could see, there was nothing in it for her; she didn’t even fancy revisiting Mexico City any more.
There was no going back, however, and once she’d stopped crying, she got up and continued packing as if nothing had happened. When Bramble tapped on her door later on and asked if she’d like to join her and Matt for a drink downstairs, she’d never have guessed that there was anything amiss.
*
Robert drove the four travellers to Bristol airport. Liz sat beside him in the car and Chabela noticed that they barely exchanged a word for the entire two and a half hours. He dropped them outside the departures gate and left immediately; Jean was kindly looking after Lowenna and he’d promised that he’d be back to collect her by nine-ish.
Liz’s eyes were damp as she watched her husband go and she was quiet for a while, but didn’t say why. She perked up a bit when they got to the duty-free lounge and she bought some make-up for her and Rosie. Meanwhile, Rafael wandered around the alcohol section, looking longingly at all the labels on the bottles, knowing full well that he wouldn’t get served.
They had something to eat and drink and before they knew it, it was time to board. It was the first time that Liz and Rosie had flown since they’d gone to Oklahoma for Rosie to have life-saving proton beam therapy treatment. Liz felt a bit strange, remembering how frightened she had been, wondering if the treatment would work.
She checked on her daughter a few times, but she seemed perfectly happy, chatting with Rafael and flicking through the in-flight magazine to find a film. Perhaps, at that age, you had a shorter memory, or maybe she had blanked out the experience. Either way, Liz was pleased that she was so relaxed.
The journey took about thirteen hours and they arrived in the dark at around three a.m. Mexican time. They were weary and hardly spoke in the taxi from the airport to Colonia del Valle, but they livened up when they finally stepped out of the lift on the fifth floor, and spied the door to Chabela’s apartment right across the hallway.
‘Here we are,’ she said, opening up and beckoning them all in. ‘Your home for the week. Welcome!’
It felt strange to be back in the apartment, seeing it partly through her visitors’ fresh eyes. Verónica had closed the blinds and put on the air conditioning so that it was cool and dark, and seemed very quiet after the hustle and bustle of the airport and motorway.
Chabela dumped her bag on the floor, switched on a few lamps and looked around. Everything was exactly the same, but also different somehow. The soft, sandy walls, dark wood furniture, green cushions and terracotta sofas and chairs reminded her of the Mexican desert on a sultry summer’s evening just before sundown.
The main room where they were was wide and spacious, with a high ceiling and large windows, though the kitchen and guest bedrooms were smaller. Even so, the proportions could hardly have been more different from Kittiwake, with all its nooks and crannies, and, of course, there was no salty smell or view of the sea.
After showing the others to their rooms, Chabela strolled into her own and felt a stab of regret, grief and longing deep in her guts. Her big bed, with the dark wooden headboard and green satin cover, had been her haven with Alfonso. It was where they had laughed, argued, eaten, drunk, put the world to rights, listened to music and made love.
She couldn’t help thinking that if Simon were there with her, the regret wouldn’t be nearly as sharp, the grief not half as deep. As it was, she was alone with her difficulties and sorrow.
Liz knew about Alfonso, of course, but Chabela didn’t want to spoil her holiday by going on about him, and besides, the poor woman had her own problems. For the next seven days, Chabela would just have to don her happy mask and get on with it.
Verónica had left milk, bread, cheese and various other items in the fridge, and there was plenty of tea and coffee. They all ate toast around the kitchen table, which was really only big enough for two, then went to bed for a few hours. Because of the time difference, however, no one could sleep and as soon as it was light, Chabela rose again and popped to the loca
l shops for fresh fruit, croissants and jam.
By about nine fifteen everyone had showered, dressed, had breakfast and they were on the road again in Chabela’s white Volkswagen Atlas, which she kept in the car park beneath her block of flats.
They had already planned to hit the ground running and spend the day at the magnificent ancient city of Teotihucán, some fifty kilometres south of Mexico City. Built more than a thousand years before the arrival of the Aztecs, it was home to the magnificent Temple of Quetzalcoatl and the great Pyramid of the Sun and Pyramid of the Moon.
It was the ideal day to visit because the jet lag made it easy for them to set off early, and they managed to beat the crowds and walk around the whole city before the sun got too hot. There were plenty of willing, English-speaking guides on site but they didn’t need one, because Chabela knew the place and its history like the back of her hand.
Later, they ate tacos in a bar and returned home exhausted but happy at around seven p.m. and almost ready for bed.
The following day, Chabela had organised a visit to the city centre, taking in Zócalo (Constitution Square), the Metropolitan Cathedral and the Education Ministry, to see the famous murals of the artist, Diego Rivera. They ate ice creams and drank cool lemonade on the terrace of the Café Don Porfirio, overlooking the Palacio de Bellas Artes with its sturdy façade and ornate art deco interior.
In the evening, Chabela booked a restaurant in the quirky neighbourhood of Colonia Roma, where they ate chiles en nogada – chillies filled with chopped meats, fruits and spices and covered in walnut cream – and chicken with mole poblano, a rusty red sauce made with plain chocolate.
Rosie, who wasn’t particularly adventurous with food, had some difficulty, but picked her way around the things she didn’t like and filled up any remaining corners with bread.
By day three, everyone had settled nicely into holiday mode, and Chabela was pleased to see Liz looking happier and more relaxed. She was clearly getting on all right with Rosie, and Rafael kept them amused with his clownish behaviour and silly jokes.
That morning, they got up quite late and visited the Frida Kahlo Museum, also known as the Blue House on account of its cobalt-blue walls, in the district of Coyoacán. When they were starting to flag, Chabela suggested a movie. They chose a Spanish language film with English subtitles in one of the city’s luxury theatres, complete with reclining leather chairs and service brought to your seat. Chabela and Liz ate sushi, washed down with white wine, while Rosie and Rafael opted for sandwiches and French fries.
The week was whizzing by so fast and they were so busy that Chabela had little time to brood. Frequently, however, she did find herself fervently wishing that Simon were there, too. It was hard not to feel resentful, when she’d looked forward to being with him so much. She knew that it was unfair to blame him in any way but still, she didn’t feel like getting in touch and he didn’t make contact, either.
On Thursday morning, they set off for the little mining town of Real del Monte, which was up in the mountains and about a two-hour journey by car from Mexico City. The Tremarnock connection failed to interest Rafael much, but Rosie and Liz were keen to find out more about the Cornish migrants who travelled all that way to settle there.
Chabela had only visited once, and that was long before she knew about her Cornish ancestry. As they drove through the narrow, cobbled streets to their small hotel, she had a strong sense of déjà vu, for the brightly painted houses on either side with their sloping roofs, low doors and colourful gardens were reminiscent of Tremarnock and all the other little fishing villages round about.
They parked the car and, after depositing their bags in their rooms, strolled back to the town centre, where the main square was home to a famous clock tower, built by Francis Rule. Originally from Camborne, he became known as the Silver King, having made a fortune from his numerous mining interests.
They also made some enquiries and managed to locate the grand hacienda, which James had lived in with Jacinta and their children. Unfortunately the current owners were away, but Chabela in particular enjoyed looking around the outside and trying to imagine the Penhallow family in situ.
Little shops selling pastes, or Cornish pasties, abounded, only these ones contained unfamiliar ingredients such as chilli and pineapple, sweetened rice, avocado and mole. The general consensus was that Cornish ones were better, but that it was good to experiment with different flavours, too.
They all wanted to see the square on the edge of town where Cornish miners used to play football. When they got there, however, they were surprised to find that it was nothing more than a rather shabby car park, with a metal plaque on the wall proclaiming: ‘Here, football was played in Mexico for the first time.’
Nearby was a run-down football museum, basically just a couple of rooms containing old photographs and some dusty memorabilia.
Rafael was a bit disappointed, having expected a more impressive display. Chabela, however, was fascinated to see the faces of the football-playing Cornish miners and to imagine her ancestor, James Penhallow, setting eyes on Jacinta for the very first time in more or less this exact same spot.
As dusk approached and the temperature cooled, they drove to the Panteón Inglés – the Cornish cemetery – located in a forest on a hilltop overlooking the town. After parking the car, they strolled through the vast, wrought-iron gates into the tranquil, leafy graveyard, overhung with fir trees and abundant with wild flowers.
Here, the group split up and Chabela found herself wandering alone among the graves, amazed to learn that all but one had been carefully aligned to point in the direction of distant England.
There were literally hundreds of dilapidated Victorian tombstones, featuring Gothic monuments such as angels, wreaths and broken pillars, all dotted with moss and stained with lichen. The epitaphs were in English, and she was touched to read the names of the brave Cornishmen and women who risked their lives to get here and never made it back to their native land.
Each epitaph seemed to tell its own story of courage, toil, suffering and love. One in particular caught her eye, that of Robert B. Noble, from St Hilary, Cornwall, who passed away in 1875, aged forty-two. Buried with him were his two infant sons, James, age four months, and Robert, seven months. Chabela could only begin to imagine the grief of the surviving mother; her poor babies had scarcely lived at all.
Other names sounded very English, too – Pengelly, Skewes, Rule, Ough, Pratt and Richards. Many had died in childhood, adolescence or their twenties. Only the lucky ones, it seemed, had made it to their fifties and beyond.
Most of the tombs were neglected and overgrown with weeds. However, Chabela was touched to see some recently scattered sweets and flowers on that one of a man named Richard Bell. Clearly he was still remembered by someone.
It was only when she went around the cemetery a second time, enjoying the sense of stillness and breathing in the scent of fir, that she took a look at some of the more modest tombstones, some of which were listing at an odd angle or had actually fallen to the ground.
At the far end of the cemetery, where the graves seemed to preside over the town below, her gaze fell on a small, square stone, which was bleached with age and covered in ivy.
For some reason, she decided to rip off some of the ivy tendrils with her fingers and wipe away the soil beneath. The writing, when it emerged, was quite hard to decipher but the more she stared, the more convinced she became that her eyes weren’t deceiving her. For there, in faded black lettering, was a name that had become extremely familiar to her of late: JAMES PENHALLOW.
Shivers ran up and down her spine and she felt a sudden surge of energy, as if someone had just joined the broken wires of an electric circuit back together again. All of a sudden, the Cornish link felt properly real. The same blood that once ran through the body buried beneath her coursed through her veins, also.
She wondered what genetic traits might have been passed down the generations. Had she inherited the same-sh
aped nose or mouth as James, for instance? Or was she prone to the same illnesses and allergies? He might have lived more than a hundred years ago, but if you stood them side by side, would you be able to tell that they were related? It seemed fanciful, but she’d noticed enough resemblances between different generations of the same families to know that certain physical features did seem to reproduce themselves ad infinitum.
Below James’s name were his dates, which tallied with those that Simon had told her, and the words, ‘Rest in Peace’, but nothing more. There was no mention of how he’d died, or of his beloved wife or children.
Chabela felt a pang of sadness that his life should have ended in this way, commemorated only by a mean, stark tombstone, which gave no clue as to his hopes and desires, his achievements and character.
There was no sign of Jacinta’s grave, either, but Chabela was certain that they would have wished to be buried together. Perhaps, one day, she or some other relative would be able to put this right but for now, the former lovers remained separated in space and time.
So lost was she in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear Liz come up behind and when she tapped Chabela on the shoulder, she jumped.
‘What have you found?’ Liz asked, and Chabela pointed to the tombstone.
‘Wow!’ Liz exclaimed. ‘That’s amazing! How weird that you’ve managed to locate him. What are the chances of that?’
She urged her friend to take some photographs, and also insisted on snapping Chabela herself by the epitaph.
‘I think there’s something rather lovely about stumbling across him here,’ Liz went on. ‘I hope he’s looking down on you from somewhere up there.’ She pointed to the sky. ‘Sending loving thoughts.’
Chabela smiled. ‘I hope so.’ Then, without thinking, she crouched down and planted a kiss on the stone.
‘Thanks for leading me to Tremarnock,’ she whispered. ‘If it wasn’t for you, I’d never have known it even existed.’
The Girl Who Came Home to Cornwall Page 29